Chapter 6: The Art of Taking Advantage

(Rosalie's POV) Lucian finally wound down. He looked satisfied, as if he had just delivered a keynote speech on his own magnificence. He unbuttoned his collar, aiming for a look of sexy disarray, and grabbed his wine glass. He drained the rest of the red liquid in one go. "See, Rosalie? This is the core issue," he complained, gesturing with the empty glass. "You're too intense. You're paranoid. It's suffocating me. I can't breathe around you." Silence filled the room. The only sound was the low hum of the central air conditioning. Lucian reached into his pocket and pulled out his silver cigarette case-monogrammed, of course. He lit one up. The blue-gray smoke curled into the air, drifting between us. It blurred his face. I stared at him through the haze. For seven years, I had loved that face. But now, the smoke seemed to dissolve the ambitious young man I once knew. He was replaced by this stranger. A man who could look me in the eye and twist reality until I questioned my own sanity. His gaslighting didn't just hurt; it shattered the last fragments of our history. The memories I had cherished were being crushed under the weight of his shamelessness. I sat on the edge of the bed. My body felt heavy, but my mind was terrifyingly clear. I felt a strange detachment, as if my soul had stepped out of my skin to watch the wreckage. I had to admit it. Lucian Steel was rotten. To the core. There was nothing left to save. He finished his cigarette and crushed it out in the crystal ashtray. He walked over to me, looming tall. He switched masks again, putting on a performance of tender concern. He reached out, his thumb brushing my cheek. It felt patronizing. Like a master calming a disobedient pet. "Reflect on yourself, Babe," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, persuasive register. "You really need to calm down." He grabbed his suit jacket from the bed. He didn't look back. He just walked out of the bedroom. The front door of the apartment slammed shut. *Bang.* The sound broke me. I slid off the bed and collapsed onto the carpet. My strength evaporated. I remembered three years ago. The proposal. He had knelt on one knee, his eyes shining with what I thought was love. *You are my Queen, Rosalie. I will share my kingdom with you.* What a joke. He had forgotten every word. He betrayed me, slept with his assistant, and then blamed me for not being gentle enough. For being too greedy. Outside, the Manhattan wind picked up. It rattled the windowpanes. I looked down at my hand. The Harry Winston diamond sparkled under the recessed lights. It felt heavy. Like a shackle. My hand trembled as I gripped the ring. I pulled it off. I let it drop. It hit the hardwood floor with a sharp, final *clink*. I wiped the tears from my face. My eyes felt dry now. Cold. There was no hesitation left in me. It was over. I reached for my phone. My fingers didn't shake this time. I dialed 911. "911, what is your emergency?" "I'd like to report a drunk driver," I said, my voice smooth and fluent. "License plate STEEL 1. It's a black Bentley. The owner just consumed half a bottle of red wine. He is currently driving toward the Regency Hotel." (Alexander's POV) Long Island. The Hawthorne Estate. The study was quiet, smelling faintly of cedar and old books. I sat at the century-old mahogany desk. The nib of my Montblanc pen scratched against the thick paper of my leather notebook. I was transcribing Stoic philosophy in Latin. *Control. Reason. Indifference.* I was trying to force my mind into submission. But the ink stopped flowing. My hand froze. The memory hit me again. The bridal shop this afternoon. Rosalie falling backward. The way her body felt against mine. The stubborn fire in her hazel eyes. The faint, clean scent of her perfume. I closed my eyes. My throat felt tight. I swallowed hard. I pressed the pen down again. The strokes became heavy, almost tearing the paper. I was punishing myself. I had to lock these thoughts away. They were dangerous. She was engaged. The heavy oak door creaked open. A small head poked around the frame. Sienna. My four-year-old niece was clutching a teddy bear, her hair a mess of curls. "Uncle Alex?" she whispered, blinking her big eyes. "Did you make a mistake again? Mommy says whenever you write the weird words in the study, it's because the Little Monster inside you is trying to get out." I didn't answer. I couldn't deny it. Sienna ran over to the desk. She stood on her tiptoes, pointing a chubby finger at the line I had just written. "What does that mean?" I looked at the Latin text. My voice came out low and rough. "**Hawthorne family motto: Honor above all. Never prey on the vulnerable.**" I repeated it in my head. *Honor above all.* It was a judgment. A cage for the beast. Every syllable felt like a sentence passed against my own desires. Sienna didn't last long. She fell asleep in my lap, mumbling about honor. I sighed. Celeste was at a charity gala. Again. I picked Sienna up, cradling her head, and carried her to the guest room. I tucked her in and turned off the lamp. The house was silent. I walked back to the study. The room was dark. I hadn't turned the main lights on. A gust of night wind blew through the half-open French windows. The curtains danced. On the desk, the wind caught the pages of my notebook. The heavy paper flipped over. The page about "Honor" was covered. Beneath it lay another sheet. I walked to the desk. The moonlight illuminated the paper. The handwriting on this page was different. It wasn't the restrained, elegant script of the previous page. The letters were sharp. Aggressive. Wild. The ink had been pressed so hard it bled through to the other side. It looked like a scar on the page. **Unless the pearl is cast into the dust.** I stood in the darkness, staring at the words. Outside, the irises in the garden swayed violently in the wind. They whispered of something primal. A hunger breaking its chains. If the pearl is cast into the dust... if the treasure is abandoned... Then the laws of honor no longer apply. That is the moment for the predator.